


It Comes With the Teething

by yuwoo



Series: A/B/O Trash Heap [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Anal Play, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Knotting, Loss of Virginity, Magical Saliva, Masturbation, Mating Bites, Modern Day Hogwarts, Nonsense To Be Completely Honest, Obsessive Behavior, Romance (I Think), Rough Sex, Scenting, Sexual Discovery, Under-negotiated Kink, Underage Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:15:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23202322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuwoo/pseuds/yuwoo
Summary: He's just bent over and said something he can't remember in the moment—something genial, something congruous with his reputation—when the girl rolls back on her heels and he inhales her hair. He almost doubles over as he spits.An A/B/O fic where Tom has a drooling problem.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Series: A/B/O Trash Heap [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1671148
Comments: 29
Kudos: 356





	It Comes With the Teething

**Author's Note:**

> Um—oops? I know I said I was going to add follow-up shorts to my previous fics, but they require some more time and attention (and were written as stand-alones as it is). [Compulsion](http://archiveofourown.org/works/17276159) by [weestarmeggie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/weestarmeggie) hit me over the head, and I've temporarily laid aside my other works in progress for cracked out A/B/O scenarios. In these trying times, I figured I'd upload the one about swapping spit first.
> 
> This is a '90s AU with characters from eras jumbled together. The largest point of confusion may be the Malfoys. Imagine Draco is Abraxas's cousin. 
> 
> As always, please heed the tags. More at end of story.

He's just bent over and said something he can't remember in the moment—"Allow me to help you with that," or "Alright, then?"—something genial, something congruous with his reputation—when the girl rolls back on her heels and he inhales her hair. He almost doubles over as he spits the fluid flooding his mouth.

They both look to the flagstones. The girl's eyebrows crawl up as she stares, incredulous.

It's the Gryffindor, the one who still has a chance at the Head Girl position instead of Chang if only she reels in what the faculty refer to as 'tendencies towards violence.' That ludicrous demonstration in front of the Kitchens with the Elfs milling about her, distressed, had done her no favor either, nor had the pathetic excuse for an underground Duelling Club which Tom had a hand in bringing attention to himself. Something as conspicuous as a flock of students in the Hog's Head, of all places, deserved it.

Tom swallows thickly. It feels as though he's tipped his head back in the Prefects' Bath and opened his mouth. His gums itch and his jaw cramps. There's a low throbbing in his skull, and it takes effort to recall what he's doing standing there.

That's when the laughter filters through and widens the world back to the corridor where he's with Abraxas and Antonin, the latter of whom is pocketing his wand. 

"Let me." 

That's what he remembers saying to her, when the textbooks fell out of the girl's satchel as she'd been walking ahead of him.

Granger narrows her eyes from where she's still crouched next to her split bag. 

"Don't strain yourself, Riddle," the girl responds now, cutting and acid and bright, just like the pheromones tickling against the roof of his mouth. She Accios the book he'd retrieved from his nerveless fingers, not deigning to touch him any more than a Slytherin would touch her. When she stands and walks away, her books silently float after in an obedient stack.

—

It's not intentional, but when he closes his eyes that night, he becomes aware of the heaviness of his balls and the way his cock twitches before it lifts, rigid as an iron bar.

After an extended period of silent irritation, he sighs and reaches down. 

There's a learned, precise geometry to how he manages these moments, designed to quell rebellious physiology with exacting efficiency. When he does resort to thinking about anything, it's usually his plans for the future, or the satisfying sound of a body hitting the ground under his wand, or the most recent instance he stifled someone with a single look.

This time his mind flickers to fresh parchment with a citrus twist, the turning of leaves, and he's immediately leaking—from the corners of his lips and his prick. He has to get to his knees; suddenly the pull of a ringed fist isn't enough. He plants both hands under himself in a tight coil, and he doesn't think about what it means, only that he needs a pillow too, something soft to lean into, something to _own—_

A low, shaky groan expels from him as he slides in.

The first few thrusts are slow. With every hunch of his hips, his foreskin slides back and then folds over onto the sensitive glans of his cockhead.

As the pace increases, he can feel the veins rise. His palms get wet with the amount of fluid weeping out of him, how clammy he's become with sweat. The precum is so copious there's a ringing slap of skin punctuating his heavy pants.

His cock's twitchy in his double grip, balls tight with repressed release. His memory skips to that scent from earlier, then the image of a small, bent form, the soft of it, and abruptly the bulge at the base of his erection is tight too, throbbing. It starts to swell as it stretches, skin inflating into his hot, heated hurt. It forces the groove of his fingers to spread to accommodate its growth while he hisses into the damp edge of his pillow, makes him _bite_ as white explodes behind his eyelids.

He splays his fingers at the swell, anchoring and wrapping it tight, trying to alleviate the pressure. Keeps flexing, fucking for his orgasm, cock slippery and jerky in its palpitations, pleasure and icy pain slithering through him as his balls draw up and up with each insistent spurt.

Tom ruts. Still cumming. Still chasing. 

It doesn’t give way, so he keeps pumping into his fists, into the mattress, into his pillow, imagining it as something else entirely: the clutch of a cunt around his member, the round of skin beneath his teeth. Eyes that were clamped shut blink the sting of sweat away while he worries at the pillow in his mouth, and with terrifying clarity, he comprehends what it means that he's knotted.

Then the last semblance of thought jumps to his curtains, which are emphatically drawn and spelled as always. He congratulates himself on his diligent maintenance of personal privacy before everything goes black.

—

He'd initially ignored her, for the most part. She was about as interesting as anyone who'd thought to compete with him until they receded—though she more reluctant than the others. Always sitting in the front row, always raising her hand, always buried in a book if she wasn't parroting its contents in and out of lessons. 

She'd garnered some attention outside of the typical acrimony a swot did in fourth year, because it was a guaranteed point of gossip to see how the cards were dealt when it came to orientation—more so when it was Krum from the Durmstrang delegation who sniffed out that she was an Omega. 

By then, Tom had already known she was, at the very least, a curiosity.

There had been whispered speculation about the illicit use of a Time Turner, which he was still livid over. Typical that someone like Dumbledore would bend backwards for one of his protégés, but also irritating Tom hadn't come up with the request himself—because he was inclined to believe the rumour. He still remembered that night two years prior, when he'd just seen her in the Great Hall during supper and then seen her _again_ in the Forbidden Forest not fifteen minutes after, practicing hexes on an amorphous amalgam of sinew and flesh.

No one would know, so he'd taken the idea of a conjurable test subject for his own at the next study session, when he was demonstrating slicing spells.

If only he'd known what she had done to _flay_ it with one strike the way she had. He'd developed a derivative himself, but it was just that: derivative. 

Tom doesn't do derivative.

That's also why he doesn't _do_ Omegas, amongst many other reasons.

Now those other reasons—the waste of time, the superfluous social mores, the capitulation to the tedium of biology—fly out the window.

'Look at me,' he thinks, while he receives praise from Slughorn over his latest, faultless, potion. 

'Look at me,' he thinks in Defence, as he silently trips Evan and then blasts him into the wall of his _second_ shield, the one he's created as a barrier in courtesy to the other students. In courtesy to _her._

'Look at your mate,' he thinks.

They pass each other in the halls, separated by the teeming mass of other students. What he would do to burn them away, so it would just be the two of them, surrounded by ash.

—

She doesn't look at him—just Potter and Weasley, flanking her like the two ineffectual sacks they are. Their Alpha pheromones grate on him like never before, acrid and oppressive over her own vivid scent. They make his lips curl, and he barely manages a well mannered smile and nod when they cross paths.

He feels like the more useless Malfoy who whinges and denounces as though it hides in any way the fact that he's gayer than a maypole dance for Potter. There's a pool going on, and most likely a party once the hysterics end. Tom doesn't share any of his own conjectures since gambling doesn't befit a future Head Boy, but he would count on Potter forgetting his suppressants for his rut; Draco is as scrupulous with his personal care as he is negligent with the connection between brain and tongue.

When he enters the library, her hangers-on aren't with her for once, no doubt allergic to any form of scholarship. She sits at a table surrounded by books while more levitate out of her repaired bag—more than should be able to fit.

He takes out his own work and studies her from a distance.

As she gets up to retrieve a piece of further reading—a Godelot work, solely accessible to those with a slip for the Restricted Section, so simple to see with his Visio charm—his legs eat up the distance in little time.

"I can get that," he murmurs over the top of her head as she goes on tiptoes for the text. 

It's a miscalculation.

He wishes there were a lavatory adjoined to the library so he could rid himself of the excess fluid gathering in his mouth. Instead, he takes a steadying breath, but that feels like yet another mistake; he draws a fresh lungful of her while soft curls brush against his chin. 

He swallows again and again. It's fortunate he's standing behind her where she can't see.

They're close. She's small compared to him, and he can easily imagine a different circumstance where she'd be in a similar position, but flush to him—a bare quiver compared to his solidity, lithe and pleasing. He'd bury his face in that scent permeating her hair, the one that would be more concentrated right behind her ear, right at the juncture of her neck and shoulder also. He'd lick her there, get her still before he'd give her the Claim, leave an indelible mark to show who she belonged to.

There's a shuddery exhale, and it's not from him. 

Tom tilts his head to the side, and he can see her mouth's dropped, wet and shiny and open, pink and then red on the inside. She's taking careful little breaths, like she knows too, like she can taste him just like he can taste her, and they're both panting now, quiet, desperate.

He tips the corner of the textbook out with a single finger. Tries not to shake when he lowers it in front of her. He presses closer, enough that he can feel the warmth from her back.

"That's an interesting bag you keep with you, Granger," he murmurs while he measures his breathing and attempts control over his salivary glands. Far be it that he do something as low as _drool._ "Let me guess. An Extension charm? Undetectable? I could use someone like you in my study group." He goes for light and conversational, even though he has to modulate his enunciation to keep his spit it. He can feel his jaw tic.

The air is rife with pent feeling, so her scoff is jarring. 

"Your _study group,"_ she says, and the sneer is evident even before she turns to face him. "You mean your little group of minions you have at beck and call? Where are Tweedles Dee and Dum right now, anyway?"

Her pheromones drift with her movement so it takes him a second, and when his synapses manage to decipher sound into speech, he's resentful he understands and doesn't want to respond.

But then his mouth opens anyway, and he says, "Are you referencing Byrom or Caroll?" and it almost pays to see her startled.

More gratifying is the hitch when he puts his forearms to the shelves and brackets her. "If you mean Abraxas and Antonin, they're not my minions, but my"—he flutters his lashes— _"friends."_

Tom gives an amicable smile, the one for first years confused by the moving staircase, and leans in. 

"I'm surprised to see your usual companions aren't with you either." He arranges his countenance into one of contemplation. "Though they seem keener for broomsticks over books. We could adjust the schedule so it coincides with Gryffindor's practice sessions. That way there won't be an overlap in extracurricular activities—" 

Her eyes flash, and it's an uncommon misstep on his part, to implicate himself in past slights. She's clearly thinking on other, former extracurriculars that he himself put to an end, so he appends it with, "You'd be a welcome addition." 

It's worth a try, so he tucks a strand behind her ear and then pauses, hovering his fingers right at the gland there. Teasing.

Granger is stolid.

"Would I?" she asks stonily, but then doesn't even let him say anything. "No, I'm sure it would be a delight for one and all to improve their _spitting aim_ at your next session. If this is some kind of warning about forming my own groups with my _actual_ friends or competing with you for scores, then let me tell you now that I don't take to being cornered, threatened, or"—her eyes dart over his body— _"physically intimidated_ kindly. _Avis!"_

And then there are the canaries everyone's learned to be alarmed by after that tiff in the corridors fourth year, but before she can launch them, an unmistakable Weasley bellow cuts through.

"Hermione! You said you'd help with the Transfigurations essay! McGonagall is going to string me up by the bollocks, I swear—"

There's the telltale hiss of an infuriated librarian and a yelp.

She walks away. Again.

—

Madame Pince is settled by the time he leaves the Restricted Section. She doesn't seem to notice much amiss, and if anything, gets as close to a smile as is possible on her pinched face when he hurries past. 

The conversation was in no way what he'd call a success, but his blood pounds, because Granger had looked at him, looked at him in class and outside of it, enough to know more about him than anyone else—it makes him feel raw, open. His chest is constricted, almost to the point of an ache, or a sore not yet healed, tender—

He goes up one storey to the girl's lavatory. Warren isn't bawling in the stalls for once, a small mercy.

Only he leaves less than a half hour later, because he went there to _think,_ not hear about chin-rubbing and vibrating bodies, or two penises and their respective single testicles emerging from the cloacae when the males swarm over the female in a _mating ball._

—

Granger may dislike him, but she's the only one. It serves Tom quite well.

"Hermione!"

A pause.

"Hermione!"

 _"What,_ Parvati." She addresses the girl across the way but keeps her eyes focused on balancing the flame underneath her cauldron.

"He's staring at you! Again!" 

Tom carefully turns his head away—just fast enough to look like it's not calculated, but slow enough that others can catch the way his eyes drag away last, almost as though they're unwilling to leave their target. He holds his breath. Tenses his jaw and neck while flexing the muscles there, subtle. Myogenic responses encourage capillary flow.

"Ohh, I think he heard! He's blushing, poor thing." 

There's the squill bulb to juice, and if he does it violently, it's only that it's effective. He's not a poor anything, but it's fine. It works.

"Won't you just put him out of his misery? It's almost cruel," the twin simpers. 

He visibly fusses over the Murtlap tentacle. Circles one of its polyps with a bashful finger before he extracts it with his knife.

"I don't know what you mean." The voice is firm, demanding no further discussion. It's as good as any time to turn around again and let his eyes graze over Granger's face until her own meet him. 

She glowers, and he whips back, fumbles his pestle as he moves to grind the Occamy eggshell.

"Hermione." It's Brown now, and her voice is flat, and then—even better—Potter clears his throat.

"Erm, I think the rue isn't going to get any more powdered than it already is. Also. Maybeyoushouldgivehimachance."

_"Harry!"_

"Oh-ho! What about 'chance?' I hope my students are discussing the properties of the potion they're working on," says Slughorn. And then, in the spirit of a shy knock at a door after hours, the exchange of some crystallised pineapple and a beseeching look up from under the lashes, he adds in a conspiratorial tone, "Though if the topic is about two of my top pupils perhaps coming _together_ to my little 'do next week, then have at."

"For goodness' sake," he hears Granger huff as the professor walks away.

"Can we talk about something else? This is dumb. You're acting like Harry, but with Riddle instead of Malfoy."

 _"Ron!"_ exclaim two voices, equally aghast.

Edmond edges away from him, and Tom knows it's because the corners of his mouth are spreading a little too far as he waves his wand over their shared cauldron. It's alright. He has more than luck on his side. 

"Felixempra," he murmurs.

—

By the time he gets to the Great Hall, everyone's tittering over how the handsome Slytherin Prefect is head over heels for the snotty Gryffindor, and he takes points away with relish even when it's from his own House once the expected "Mudblood" gets bandied about. 

"Twenty off Slytherin. It's the twentieth century, Draco, and those epithets are unseemly and passé," he says, having his voice carry. Abraxas thins his lips, but his eyes skitter away in due deference when Tom slants a look at him.

Alphard just snorts. "What's next, a bouquet?"

Not a terrible idea. 

He doesn't miss a beat as he pivots to approach the Gryffindors, and he beams at Potter, who returns it with glowing, magenta cheeks. There's a squawk from his own table.

When he gets to her, he suppresses it to a hesitant, earnest guise. 

"Granger," he starts, and she doesn't look at him, still, so he switches the pumpkin juice in front of her for water. 

"Er, sorry," he says then with a nervous smile. "I just remember you mentioning something about the sugar content once. Your parents are dentists, aren't they? That's admirable." 

Weasley looks impressed, but anything that transcends short-term memory evokes that expression from him.

"What do you want," Granger says.

He conjures a spray of flowers. Pink camellias and delicate, barely-bloomed yellow chrysanthemums, eucharises and gladioli and sprigs of heather. She narrows her eyes at the overwrought display. Everyone's had to take the same lessons, so she knows what they mean. 

"I was hoping—and only if you want—if you'd. Well. Come to Professor Slughorn's party with me. As, er, a date. If you want." He twitches his lips, and someone coos.

"Oh, she wants," the female Weasley says from next to her. 

_"Thank you,_ Ginny," Granger grumbles under her breath. Then she looks at him. "The professor's next Slug Club event," she states, flat.

He bobs his head and lets his adam's apple do the same. "I thought it may be—interesting. There's always a new group of people there."

"I wouldn't know," she says just as monotone. "I've never been invited before. Funny, don't you think, that now it's open doors?"

Tom pauses, wondering if she's going to push against the tide of the audience and its pressure—she would, wouldn't she—but makes as if he's searching for words, which, in fairness, he is. 

"Well, it doesn't have to be the party," he extemporises. "It could be something else, like some time at the library, or maybe the next time we have rounds together"—he gains momentum, feels a curl of delight—"we could go to the Viaduct Courtyard, or take a walk around the lake, or maybe"—he affects mortification, hides the glee—it's apparent in the youngest Weasley's face as it is—

"The Astronomy Tower," he says, hoarse. 

"I could use help with the next assignment," he whispers, and the sophistry is flagrant now, the act so pitiable that it's almost disgusting how the masses lap it up.

It's perfect. She's getting elbowed from both sides. There's an indignant "Ow!" no doubt from a kick or a pinch. People are glaring, not just from the girls at the table he's standing at, but the entire Hall, including where the staff sit.

Granger fumes. It's magnificent. 

"I suppose," she bites, "out of all those _lovely_ proposals, the option with witnesses is preferable. I'll go to the blasted party."

He smooths his features in relief. "Brilliant," he breathes. "Er—great." 

Maybe the time for blubbering has ended. He tempers it. "I'll meet you at your common room. Friday, seven-thirty?"

She gives the barest of nods.

As he turns back to go eat, Girl Weasley murmurs, "Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?"

Whether it's aimed at Granger or himself is irrelevant. He's the one who walks away this time.

—

He gets to the portrait on the seventh floor at seven-ten. 

"Everything's just new for me," he tells it in a confiding tone. "I don't want to botch things."

"You have _nothing_ to worry about, dearie. Maybe some wine to ease the nerves?" slurs the second woman who's edged in. 

"That's very kind, Violet," he responds, "but I'm not sure how that would work."

"Oh, how silly of me! I always forget I'm a painting now!"

The frame slides, and someone's face emerges. 

"Ginevra," he says. 

The girl smirks at him. "Ginny's fine. I had a feeling you'd be early. I'll just let Hermione know, shall I?"

"I wouldn't want to rush. It's presumptuous of me to show up before I said I would."

She just smirks again and goes back in. 

He leans against the far wall and adjusts his tie. His mouth is already pooling in anticipation, so he gulps and then raises his wand to cast a Tergeo to just—get rid of it. 

It's hastily covered with a Breath Freshening charm when the portrait slides open once more and Granger comes out. 

The dress is—tight. Not overtly so, but it follows the lines of her body in a manner the regulation clothing and the robes—somehow always frumpier on her than anyone else—don't. 

Tom gulps again. 

"Your hair," he tries.

"Yes, well, I thought I'd mitigate the usual attempts at slander."

Her curls have been smoothed back into a low chignon, and her skin is just—there. As are her ears and her neck and her bare shoulders and the area between them.

"It's nice," he says, "but I like it when it's natural. Everything else about you projects that you care too much, but your hair—" He stops. 

She stares.

"Never mind," he says then, and the self-deprecating quirk he lets out is, for once, honest.

They walk to Slughorn's office in silence. He tries, as has become habit, to hold his breath while the saliva builds and his gums itch.

—

The party's as it always is. Slughorn gets progressively ruddy while he wheels his latest guests—this time some members of the Wigtown Wanderers—through the circuit. Tom's already smiled and said something about the seamless execution of the Parkin's Pincer at the last match. 

"Didn't know you were a Quidditch fan," Granger mutters. Tom purses his mouth, which also disguises yet another discreet swallow of spit. Whatever product Granger used on her hair has masked most of the pheromones, but they're still present.

"It's diverting enough as far as tossing balls and beating sticks go," he replies, then winces internally. His characteristic grasp of the English language has slipped since he first saw Granger—more so with the alcohol he uses in sparing quantities to fortify him through the Potions professor's blundering. "It's always interesting to see anyone perform anything with aptitude, and there's always space for inspiration across disciplines."

Granger shoots him a narrow look. "I suppose that jump and hex rebound from last time in Defence really was like a—what was it? Dionysus Dive? Ron's words, not mine."

"I suppose," he rejoins. Then he permits himself a private smile. "Though flying without any burdens like a broom would be far more appealing."

She snorts then. "So that's what you do in the Forbidden Forest," and Tom freezes, but she just gazes back at him, bland. "I knew it couldn't be anything like getting unsanctioned potions ingredients, what with the _rapport_ between yourself and our beloved professor."

Their beloved professor sloshes some of his whiskey on the Chaser he's leaning against that moment, heavy enough to almost make the unfortunate woman fall.

"Let me guess," she continues. "Wingardium Leviosa? Though it would have to be quite strong. Maybe an adapted Mobilicorpus."

"Allow me to refresh your drink," Tom responds, and takes her glass.

There's a time limit to being a courteous companion at an event, but he loiters with the refreshments. He didn't know she'd seen him, back when he'd seen her. His chest is uncomfortable again, and he wants to take her to the forest right then, ask her about the flaying spell he saw two years ago, show her what he's been working on. He tells himself it's juvenile. He tells himself it's _reckless._

Someone's cup clatters to the floor, and then there's the tinkle of another person's broken glass. He turns to look. 

Granger's advancing on Antonin, eyes sparking as much as the end of her wand wedged under his chin. 

"Finish that sentence," she dares him, and her eyes are amber in the light, like the turning of leaves in fall, glowing like parchment held to a window. "Just try."

Her hair's started curling again, and Tom can almost sense the magic crackling from it, the power, wild and uncontrolled just like her. 

Just like his mate.

"Let me," he says when he bounds over to them. He takes the stems of the champagne flutes into one hand and gently pushes the wand down and away. Then he swivels his head to Antonin, slow. In the way he knows is reptilian.

"That's twenty points for the slur. Another thirty for provoking violence. And detention, Ant, this Monday after dinner. I'll see with Filch whether it will be with him or me."

Antonin already knows it will be with him. 

Tom gives a conciliatory gesture to the gathering with his free hand and then takes Granger by the elbow. "We'll be going now. I hope everyone enjoys the rest of the evening."

They walk away. 

"In case it escaped your notice," Granger says, wrenching her arm away from him when they reach the end of the hallway, "I fight my own battles."

He can't help but huff a breath at that. "Of that, I'm aware," he says drily. "I just wasn't planning on bloodshed tonight." 

Then he takes her by the elbow again. "I saw what happened to Draco that one time," he murmurs, drawing her close. "I liked it."

"That—" Granger pauses. Squints in suspicion. "Isn't he your friend?"

"I thought I didn't have friends, only minions."

She looks at him flatly. "You're being obtuse on purpose. Even if you don't have _friends—"_

"We could be friends," Tom interrupts. "We're more than that already," he adds.

She just eyes him.

"Granger," he says. "Now who's being obtuse?"

He tugs her even closer, puts his nose to her neck despite her surprised expletive, and it's as heady as he remembers. 

"Fresh parchment," he murmurs into her skin. "Autumn leaves. Citrus, sharp and sweet." He licks then, right at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Trails it up to behind her ear. 

Time seems to suspend itself for a moment while he feels her pulse flutter under his mouth.

She clears her throat then, but her voice is raspy. "Grass, like lying by the lake in spring, which you do anyway. And camphor. It always reminded me of how ink is after it dries, but I figured it was the Breath Freshening charm. Leather, that I reckoned was because of Malfoy and Black and the rest of them. It's not like it's ever changed, not since first year."

He rolls his face against her, lightheaded. He can't stop tonguing at her neck, so warm and smooth, unblemished. 

"Let me," he says, but he doesn't wait, just slides the ridges of his teeth down to the gland at the base of her neck and bites—feels the flesh give under his teeth, tastes the tang of blood.

Her moan is obscene. 

Suddenly he's dragging her against him, as close as he can through their clothes, and there's a wet splash against his trousers, the sound of shattered glass—it doesn't matter. He needs her to do it too, needs her to Claim him back. 

"Come on, Granger," he says, tugging at his tie while he gropes at her, arse small and round and malleable under his other hand. He pulls at the buttons in his collar and they pop off and ting across the stone—that doesn't matter either. 

"Come on," he urges, pulling her head to him. 

But the saliva's coursing through her veins; she's gone. She just arches back and heaves against him—a small, scant, perfect line of heat. He groans in frustration and fists her hips—shakes her once, _hard,_ into the jut of his pelvis, like he could just plug his knot into her with that motion alone.

He pulls her to the nearest dungeon.

—

Anyone else would be unwieldy, but she's a pliant slip of a thing—it's easy to throw her to the table. When she lands against it, she recovers enough to become hellbent at tearing his shirt, then his belt. 

"Off," she whines, then drops down, useless again. Tom curses for a moment before remembering they have magic. 

He vanishes his clothes, but the dress is too nice—superfine silk, sleek and shiny. He yanks it up around her waist, then down past her tits, which jiggle—he has to drop down to suck on them then. 

Flawless mouthfuls. He could do it all night if his other needs weren't so pressing—painful against the hard edge of the desk. Still, he pulls at her breast with his mouth, worrying at the taut whorl of her nipple with a sharp tongue before releasing it with a loud slurp. 

He sucks a toothy trail that he knows will turn into lurid dark marks as he shoves her sopping knickers to the side. They reveal a slick quim, fat with blood. He'll have his mouth on that later, when she's dripping from the both of them. He fists his cock once and then fucks into her. 

Clenching, molten satin, as stubborn as she is even when they're both choking with lust. The short, selfish jabs he puts to her body aren't much better than slamming straight in. They force noises out, wet and vulgar. 

Tom sinks his teeth into the bite again. Doesn't let go until he's pushed so deep his balls are crushed to her drenched sex, pinning her to the desk with his prick. He has no control over his hips; they go in and in and in—

Something shifts within him, and it's like the floodgates open. Everything comes pouring out of his mouth.

"You're mine now," he swears. "You can't take it back."

So _hot,_ so _tight,_ all _his,_ no one else _ever_ able to feel her sweet little cunt, _his his his—_

The scent of their exertion clings to him like heat fumes, sweet and tangy and musty slick—parchment and ink and leaves and grass. He looks down where he's splitting her wide, so dark and rude between her petal folds.

"You're going to cry at how thick it is. Going to—to hang off my knot every night—"

That thought alone makes his hips snap fierce—her teeth clack, and it's good, perfect, her cunt so _bloody perfect._

"I'll clean your tears," he breathes. "I'll lick them—lick you everywhere. You'll leak my seed all day, need my tongue—"

"That's disgusting," she pants out, but then _grinds_ into it, meets his thrusts with her own tiny ones, opens her thighs even more and puts her heels to his arse even as she keens. He works at her even harder.

"Everyone will know you're full of it, full of my cum from how much I've stuffed you. In the classrooms, in the halls—I'll fuck you in front of everybody—"

His cock is straining, stiffer than it's ever been as he drives into the muscular beat of her. It's not enough; he needs to feel more, _feel_ it, and he jags deeper still—even as his knot starts plumping, even as he has to lengthen his strokes to punch it in and out with a pop and a suck into her mouthy snatch. 

He pounds into her just to hear the desk scrape against the floor, hear her pants turn into little ah ah ah's of helpless noise. Bends down until their noses brush against each other's. Coaxes into her lips to cum on it, come on, cum on his cock.

He puts it to her one last time, _brutal._

First a twitch, then a swell. Tom sticks his tongue into her mouth as he shudders through the knotting, so fast he almost passes out.

She doesn't kiss him back, just bangs her head against the desk with a cry, then rears up to bite his shoulder, claw at him as she goes through being stretched for the first time. 

He groans and mashes into her even though he can't pull back, jerks his hips in aborted moves against wet folds that drench him ever more. He rolls as much of himself as he can into her until he feels her pretty pussy _ripple,_ then clamp to the point of pain, so bloody tight. 

A guttural sound escapes his throat through her scream, and then a grunt when she releases her jaws from him. 

Her teeth are pink from his blood when she snaps, "A little warning would have been nice." 

His body's singing from being Claimed, finally, so he just angles his pelvis and feels under her dress at the thin skin of her stomach, wondering if he can find any hint of the bulge from where he's still squirting hot inside of her.

The endorphins dance through him while he floods her with his wet white.

It's considerable how much he gives her—enough to make a belly go round. He wonders if it will. If the flat, smooth plain between her fragile hipbones will distend by the time he shrinks enough to withdraw. He presses down, wanting to feel himself in her from the outside.

She bats his hand away, so he moves it to where the two of them are mated. Collects the drip seeping out of her melty cunt despite the cling of his swollen seal. He rubs it between his index finger and thumb, spreads the proof of orgasm to a strand, then goes back for more. 

He puts it to the tight ring between her darling, pert cheeks. 

"Don't. Even."

Tom trails his finger back to their shared spend. Then goes back. Nudges. The furl of it contracts, obstinate but sweet, just like her, his mate. His. 

His chest hurts.

"Riddle."

"Let me," he says, then cants his head, beseeching. Rubs his lips against hers again. "Kiss me," he murmurs, and when she does this time, it's gentle. They're no longer frantic, just—soft. 

It's enough to turn one's head.

But.

He pushes in. 

"Riddle, you bastard!" 

He draws back and gives a demure smile. "I am, at that," he shares with her. "Are you going to hit me, like you did with Draco? I really do still think on it, at night."

"Don't mention that idiot when you're inside of me."

"Fair enough," he laughs. But then he drops it and says, "I just want to feel myself in you. Feel how we are together." 

She huffs, because she knows he knows her better by now. Nevertheless, she lies back down. He licks his lips and probes at her rim, then slides in, slow, to the last knuckle.

So. Full. 

He doesn't have to hide his swallows anymore but almost does anyway.

"It's never going to be enough," he admits, and goes in for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Regarding tags: It's A/B/O. I feel like consent is dubious even in the best of times with this trope. With that said, this fic is a cracky one, so not much more beyond what's already tagged. Underage Sex is for the fact that the characters are still teenagers, not yet of age. There's some surprise knotting which I think falls in the bucket of Under-negotiated Kink. Penetration and mating bites before explicit verbal consent as well. Tom's not really Voldemort in this story, but he's still a dick. 
> 
> That should be about it, but please let me know if you think I've neglected something.
> 
> —
> 
> Mating balls are basically snake orgies where a bunch of males wrap around a single female. It can get pretty gross, from what I've read of it. Male snakes apparently use their penises similarly to how someone may favor their right hand over their left, or vice versa (!!!).
> 
> Tom's blushing-on-command and some other moments serve as decisive nods to the excellence that is [era appropriate](http://archiveofourown.org/works/16848871) by [esotyric.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/devilrie) I believe the writer hints at a nonverbal warming charm to get the pink glow, which is a much better idea than what I laid out. I, for obvious reasons, didn't want to copy (and also like the idea of Tom poring over Muggle medical journals in his spare time).
> 
> For anyone who cares about flower language, Tom's bouquet contents are as follows:
> 
> Pink camellias ('Longing for you')  
>  Yellow chrysanthemums ('Slighted love')  
>  Eucharis lilies ('Maiden charms' lol)  
>  Gladioli ('Give me a break' lolol)  
>  Heather ('Admiration, solitude, wishes to come true')
> 
> —
> 
> Big thank you to the kind individual on Discord who gave this fic a read-through and treated it with far more respect than such trash deserves, as well as everyone else there who's given indispensable feedback to better my writing.
> 
> —
> 
> And as usual... I go back and make revisions to my writing on a sporadic basis. It will be the same for this. Downloaders, please note.


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